I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Friday, April 28, 2006

From cute to creepy

Recently, I did something considered to be a thoughtful gesture. It was done with the best of intentions – no ulterior motives. Now, as I’m looking back on it, I’m having doubts whether the recipient would feel the same way.

It wasn’t anything bad, mind you.

There were no pet bunnies being boiled in a pot, no ice pick used to slash away at a block of frozen water, no faux sexual harassment lawsuit designed to draw attention away from a faulty tech product being launched into the market.

This isn’t a Michael Douglas movie.

But, when does it cross the line? When does it go from cute to creepy?

A little note is sweet. A little note written in blood is scary. Longing for someone from afar is romantic. Longing someone from afar because of a restraining order is unsettling.

There are so many ways to cross that vaguely defined line. Personally, I think it comes down to two things: Should you tell them in advance and ruin the surprise? Should you not do anything and ruin the possibility of making someone’s day a little bit better?

Either way, there is no clear-cut answer.

So, while this conundrum rolls around in my mind, I’m going to have some rabbit for dinner, with a side of scotch rocks, and a little litigation for dessert.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Love songs make me sick

Every time someone listens to a song that brings back memories of a lost love (or one that is just within reach, or already beside you), the body produces actions reacting to the music and lyrics, production and arrangement, and the accompanying voice of the singer.

After your brain registers the song as familiar, the initial pang in your heart leads down to your core. Your muscles tighten and contract. There is a push and pull. Your stomach leaps inside of you. Up and down, back and forth. Pain becomes irrelevant. You lean forward and hold on, as if you can’t take it anymore.

Kinda feels like cramps.

On this week’s American Idol, popera star, Andrea Bocelli, and überproducer (as well as executive producer of my debut album, plus BFF), David Foster, were the featured guests, with the theme being love songs.

The singers sang their hearts out, but only a few of them made us feel sick...

McPhee – I have nothing. You may have nothing after you’re in the bottom three this week. No one has ever sung this song well on AI (only Jenny the Hud came close). Your smugness got the best of you, and your performance was all over the place. Why didn’t you sing Paris’ song?.

Yamin – A song for you. It gave me chills, without being the sobbing mess that Paula Abdul made herself to be (get the woman a roll of Bounty). Great performance. Ooh.

Pickler – Unchained melody. Made my hair stand on end, in the bad way. You wanted to recreate the pottery scene in Ghost? You better stay out of throwing distance, 'cause there will be some mud flying your way. And, what really ticks me off is she will be in the competition for another few weeks, right up until the end.

Bennett – The way we were. It’s supposed to be a song about longing, not a song about needing. You may be the strongest female singer in the competition, but this song was oversung. You should’ve sung Katherine’s song.

Hicks – Just once. Strange how you sound like James Ingram… and Joe Cocker and Rob Seger, and… But, James Ingram can actually sing the song in tune and not have it meander all over the map. Love the velvet jacket with the satin trim. Does it come in a 36 long?

Daughtry – Have you ever really loved a woman? It was surprisingly sexy (for a Bryan Adams song), without being screechy (a trait of hardcore rockers). You’re not the lead singer from Live, or, God forbid, Creed. When you sing the damn song, you can actually sing the damn song.

Although none of them really made me ill, there was a time where a migraine came on strong due to one singer. And, I even threw up a little in my mouth.

But, I decided to keep my mouth shit, uh, I mean shut.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Mourning after pill

Every day, millions of dollars are spent on the R&D of drugs designed to help people with their problems – depression, anxiety, etc.

But, some people would rather have a pill that allows for complete memory loss, helping them to forget memories (and pain) they’d rather not remember. Surprisingly enough, not one drug company - from Astra to Zeneca - has ever designed such a drug.

Why not? Why not create a pill that would allow people to remember the past? The immediate past? Yesterday. A pill that makes one want to relive that day because of its fond memories already starting to fade.

Not a morning after pill, but a mourning after pill.


It was perfect weather for January. The skies were clear and blue, and the temperature was moderately nippy, without a sign of windchill. The peacoat I was wearing kept me warm, as well as the extra five pounds I was carrying on my frame from the past several weeks of gorging on too many fat-laden meals.

As we sat in the empty restaurant, eating our delicious food, my friend surprised me with paying for my lunch as well as giving me some boozy goodness in the form of a couple bottles of wine. It was very kind of her, considering her budget for such extravagances was limited.

When we purchased tickets for an overrated movie at the local cinema, I couldn’t help notice that I was being checked out. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they thought we used a coupon (the movie prices did double from the week before).

While doing some shoplifting at Canada's premiere department store, even my friend noticed I was being checked out, again. Interesting. We ignored them while throwing the occasional cashmere sweater and Jo Malone cologne into our bags.

When we escaped the authorities with our quick wit and Alias-esque disguises, went out for coffee (the said friend paid, again) and the eyes would not stop looking at me. Fuck. Did I have a big zit on my forehead? Is that what it was?

After we decided what we would keep from our “shopping excursion” (and what would be returned for store credit, or sold on eBay), we said our goodbyes and went to our respective homes.


The day had everything: adventure, affection, attention, and alcohol.

It didn’t matter that I didn't get a lot of cards, phone calls, or e-mails (for those who did send something my way, and you know who you are, thank you for remembering).

It was a perfect day. Exactly what I wanted.

If I could relive that day when I'm feeling a little sad, I would. Alas, there is no pill that can do such a thing.

Thankfully, Pfizer has a whole slew of pills that can take care of a mild case of depression.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Suffering from a case of digititis

There isn’t anything electronic that spontaneously breaks or fails around me. It can be the smallest of gadgets to the largest of appliances – nothing escapes my wrath.

There was a television that already had a few issues (thanks to my father’s tinkering) and when I turned it on, the screen’s colour changed from green to blue to green to static to black. Then BOOM! A few seconds later, smoke was coming out of the back of the box.

There was my first computer (IBM, p.o.s.) that crashed the first time I turned it on. Things never improved (and those condescending bastards at customer “support” didn’t help, either).

There were CD players that only spun CDs so quickly, the cabinet on which it rested shook like it was possessed and cassette players that don’t play cassettes, anymore.

There was a VCR that chewed up tapes and literally spat them out.

There were remote controls that didn’t change channels (although later I found out it my psycho Sibyl of an ex-roommate broke it after letting it fall too many times on the floor).

There are Web sites that don’t work when I’m on them (yahoomail and hotmail are culprits) or crash/freeze when I log on them.

And, recently, there have been issues with my blog template and header (or lack of one). After trying to add a header I “designed” by altering the template, my site was shut down for two days. If I wasn’t dead-ass broke, I’d pay someone to stick the damn thing in the template, so I wouldn’t have to worry about throwing the computer monitor across the room in a fit of rage.


But, no matter what happens, I feel as if I can never shake off this case of digititis. It will only get worse before it gets better.

If it gets better.


And, as an aside, if anyone knows how to help me out with the template, or how to pop my header in this template without fucking up the site, please e-mail/contact tell me.

Fuck. I’ve aged about seven days over this shit.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Rod Stewart gets old... ies

Classic songs of yore are normally dusted off and rerecorded by some of the music industry’s young up-and-comers looking for a hit, or some of the industry's vanguards wanting to maintain their status while broadening their maturing fan base.

It’s a renaissance of sorts, and a cash cow of others.

So, it came as no surprise when Rod Stewart put out an album of standards a few years ago: The Great American Songbook. The surprise came when it went to number one, sold millions and allowed him to record four more of these themed albums.

These songs are classics and there is no way for the Idol finalists to fuck them up.

Of course, even I’ve been wrong once before…


Man in black – What a wonderful world. The man in black can actually sing a song instead of shout it out. And, for the next few weeks (because you will be in the final three), you’ll continue to rip into every heavy metal song you can.

Lady in red – Foolish things. Except for e-nun-ci-a-ting every word of the song (now, that was a foolish thing), your performance was composed and confident; remarkable for a 17-year-old.

Shades of grey – You send me. The first two-thirds of the song were kinda blah. Then you tore it up and ripped it apart (in a good way) in the end. Thank God you didn’t dance.

Violet Elliott – It had to be you. You brought a smooth and soulful jazziness to the song that eliminates any trace of sappiness. It was a good performance, but this may have been your third strike (I still love you, though).

Pink bubbles – Bewitched, bothered and bewildered. The beginning of the song started off quite lovely. Then it became bemused, baffled and befuddled. Oh, and your reaction to when Rod told you to “remember the words and the lyrics” was priceless.

Baby blue tie, baby blue eyes – That’s all. If you sang Chris’ song choice, you would’ve blown everyone away. But, this wasn’t bad. It would’ve been better one note below the one you sang because it did get a little nasal (and I know nasal) in the middle of the song. That's all.

Sparkle and shine – Someone to watch over me. The crowd goes silent as Linda Eder sings to her fans. She looks to the cameras on cue and gives them the look. Her voice enraptures millions of people. She knows she’s good, and part of me wants to smack that smugness out of her.


Although Rod’s cheekiness was kept in check with his renditions of these songs, it’s nice to know his naughty humour comes out in his interviews.

Do ya think I’m sexy?

Monday, April 17, 2006

Pink sandpaper

In the western hemisphere, there are certain luxuries that people take for granted: electricity that allows lights to switch on and off; indoor plumbing that allows people to do their duties within the confines of an actual loo (not a hole in the ground).

Out of those luxuries, only one trumps them all. The world is a better place due to its existence.

I’m talking about padded toilet paper.

When travelling in Europe, I never realized there so many variations on TP, as long as they were all rough to the touch and could remove multiple layers of paint from your walls.

Imagine what it would do to your nether regions?

Does anyone enjoy exfoliating the crack of their ass?

Their TP is also very pulpy (not the same as padded). So pulpy, in fact, that you can see pieces of wood. Whoever enjoys getting a load of splinters while wiping their ass is something I’d rather not get into right now.

Also, the EU believes it is better to produce unbleached TP - because the abrasive chemicals can cause irritation after repeated usage - than the white stuff.

But, they’re not above adding a little colour to their TP. Typically available in a variety of pastel colours (pink, blue and yellow), the rolls look cute, but there’s a reason why they should only be used for arts and crafts not arses and crap: the colour is transferable.

Anyone who wants to walk around with a highly-sensitive, blue ass is none of my business. And, please don’t bother showing it to me, either.

When you hear about products such as these, it’s no wonder people are grouchy first thing in the morning.

Pink sandpaper?

Dude, it’s the shit.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Tasting cotton

While at work, it comes as no surprise that my legs begin to fall asleep after sitting in a chair for several hours. It’s so gradual, you almost don’t feel it happen.

Things begin to tingle, from your toes to your thighs. There is a mushy feeling, as if they’re morphing themselves into mounds of clay. Then BAM! The moment you get up, you almost fall over due to the plodding paralysis.

In order to rectify the situation, I take a short walk around the building. I use the service staircase, down four floors, use the escalator to hit the main floor, take a walk around the building, then back up escalator and the four floors to the employee entrance.

Before swiping my card to get in, I normally adjust my underwear. It’s amazing that a short walk can turn a pair of briefs into a miniscule thong. After a few tugs, and a wiggle, the wedge is gone and I walk into the office.

No muss. No fuss.

This continues on a daily basis, as a moderate form of exercise - light cardio. Down the stairs and escalator, around the building, then backtrack on the stairs and escalator.

Before I get to the employee entrance, I feel that my briefs have gone a little too far up, so much so that I’m tasting cotton. What was first a pair of briefs has now become a VS thong. I squat and pull, twist my torso and shake my leg a little. While doing this, I turn around and look up. There’s a surveillance camera. It’s been watching me. It’s been watching me several times a day, for the past few months. Over and over.

After adjusting my wedge, I smile and wave to the camera. Then, I turn around, smack my ass and walk into the office.

Hopefully, they liked the show.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

We will rock you

Upon hearing that the American Idol hopefuls were to sing the songs of Queen, one of the most famous rock bands of all time, I knew this would result in one of two outcomes: the singers would either blow you away, or they would blow, period.

Wondering who would sing We are the champions, was getting me excited. The delight of having someone massacre that song in front of more than 30 million people (and several more online) is enough to make my nipples hard.

Trying to imitate (and never duplicate) the vocal stylings of Freddie Mercury is one of the hardest things to do. With a range verging on operatic, it’s all about hitting the low notes and the high screeches.

Who will rock? Who will roll?

Let’s get on with the show …

Bucktooth boy - Fat-bottomed girls. Should I bother to say anything? You will stay on the show for another few weeks, singing about life in the country, your animals and the girl that broke your heart for her first cousin, while a slew of better singers will be tossed like my cookies.

Young blue eyes – We will rock you. Sadly, you didn’t. Your voice and range isn't made for this kind of music. It's not strong enough. You’re the sensitive guy with a guitar and piano in the background. James Blunt/Daniel Powter, meet your newest group member.

Bleach job Barbie – Bohemian rhapsody. When I heard you were singing this song, I thought this will be the highlight of craptastic entertainment. Yet, I was wrong. The spotlight, the hair and makeup, the black leather and the Stevie Nicks singing made me want to take a cold shower after you finished with your performance.

Rocker man - Innuendo. Except for the eyeliner, the facial scruff, the strobe lights (which give me migraines) and the two really sharp notes you didn’t hit, it was still good. The song wasn’t great, but you still rock.

Miss Clairol - Who wants to live forever? As her beautiful hair framed her smoky eyes, and the red satin top clung to her curvy frame, she stood on the stage and sang her song with too many off-pitch notes. It’s unfortunate, because she’s the best female singer on the show.

Hey, Mr. DJ – Somebody to love. True, there were some off spots, but he wasn’t the only one. Was it one of the better performances of the night? Undoubtedly. I’m sure he found somebody to love while he was singing.

Spazzy McSpaz – Crazy little thing called love. Simon was right when he said it looked like you were drunk. No sober person would do what you did. Everything was wrong: the song, the clothes, the dancing. And, don’t get me started on the microphone kicking (or lack, thereof). Jesus, what were you thinking?

Farrah – The show must go on. She can sing, she can dance, she can do a hairwhip. Can she rock? Eh. But, she can sing.

In the end, did they rock? Not so much. Did they roll? More often than not.

Did they suck? Ask Ryan Seacrest. He knows about sucking.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Marry rich, honey, marry rich

Every Wednesday, I indulge in a Burger King Whopper, because I need a break from the healthy and delicious meals I eat on a daily basis. I don't know what it is about this burger. Maybe it's the huge beef patty and carb-loaded bun. Maybe it's the dressings and thick glop of mayo. Maybe it's the fact that it only costs $1.79, plus tax.

Or maybe it's a little bit of all of them.

Ravenous as I am for this sandwich, I practically cut off everyone in my path as I drive towards the nearest restaurant. I'm drooling as I think about placing that burger in my mouth, munching on it's tasty goodness, and feeding my insatiable hunger.

After parking my car in the nearest spot and running in like a madman, I approach the server.

She's cute. Underneath the green cap, she's done up as if she were about to go to the club. She looks up at me and smiles. Beautiful teeth. I smile back. Yeah, she's really cute.

"One Whopper, no cheese, to stay," I say. Simple and to the point.

"One Whopper meal? Cheese? To go?" she asks as she tilts her head to the side. Her expression vacant.


Did she not understand me? Did I suddenly lapse into latin? I explained to her exactly what I wanted. The only thing I didn't do is punch in the order, take the money and make the fucking sandwich myself.

Fuck, hunger makes me especially irritable. I'm two seconds away from picking up an orange food tray and smacking it across the back of her head.

"No," I reply, trying not to sound condescending. "One Whopper. Not a meal. No cheese. To stay." I look at her with a face that says, Did you understand it this time, or do I have to say it slower?

"One Whopper, not a meal, no cheese, to stay," she repeats the order aloud as if she's going to forget.

Poor, sweet, cute girl.

Even simple orders are complicated to her. Eight words, many of which include the word no, are as incomprehensible as quantum physics.

But, I'm being too rough on her. This could be her first day of training on the job - her first job. She could young, nervous, and inexperienced.

If this isn't the case, I only have five words of advice for you: Marry rich, honey, marry rich.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Better the devil you know

Recently, while I was on the phone with a friend of mine, the conversation veered towards reciprocity in relationships. Or should I say, unreciprocal relationships – the kind where only one person is involved.

He tells me about a buddy of his who is in a relationship with someone he doesn’t realize isn’t interested in him (hence the one-sided part of the relationship). He tells me his buddy feels like resistance is futile, and eventually his crush will give in and fall madly in love with him.

Ah, l’amour in the 21st century.

My friend thinks it’s a little foolish to act in this manner. But, I am not sure where I stand in this situation.

Is it best to say something and hope they understand, even with the fear of a negative reprisal on their behalf?

Or, is it best to say nothing and hope they find out on their own, even with the fear of them going after you, asking why you never told them this in the first place, putting their heart out there, getting it stomped on, feeling embarrassed and stupid and then going home and sitting in front of the television for days on end with nothing to comfort them but Ben & Jerry’s and endless reruns of CSI and Law and Order?

Tough decision.

Personally, I’m the sort of person who wants the truth no matter how much it hurts (I'm not a cold and heartless bastard, but I want to get on with my life and not dwell on the past).

But, I don’t say anything. I keep my opinions and judgements to myself. Let my friend’s buddy learn his lesson however he pleases.

Better the devil he knows.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

What the fuck happened to Kenny Rogers?

You got to know when to hold them
Know when to fold them
Know when to walk away…

Kenny Rogers sang those lyrics many years ago in his song, The Gambler. He is a giant in the country music industry, although you wouldn’t recognize him if his name wasn’t plastered along the bottom of the screen on this week’s American Idol.

What the fuck happened to him?

Where are the sparkly suits and cowboy hats? The shaggy salt-and-pepper beard? The freakin’ mullet? That was part of his image. That made Kenny Rogers, Kenny Rogers.

You got to know when to hold them…

Now the man is wearing a lavender shirt over a tight, black v-neck and boot-cut jeans. The salt-and-pepper beard is now a snow-white goatee, and the mullet is moussed into a messed mass of mierda.

But, it doesn’t stop at Kenny Rogers.

Look at the remaining Idol contestants; every week, their look changes. As with the theme of the week, their looks change accordingly.

Know when to fold them…

Taylor looks more like Kenny Rogers than Kenny Rogers.

Mandisa sings better when her hair is straighter and when she dresses like someone in her 30s, as opposed to a teen who just ransacked a crochet store.

Elliott is growing out the hair and the goatee and doesn’t look like a reject from Lord of the Rings anymore.

Kellie is one tube top, push-up bra and pair of tight-ass jeans away from being a hostess at Denny’s.

Ace spends his free time sharing the mirror with Ryan Seacrest (and practicing that doe-eye look with the right hand reaching out to the crowd), so he shouldn't have a reason to look bad.

Paris changes clothes and her hair like she changes her songs. Psychologically, she is referred to as someone with DID (a.k.a. multiple-personality disorder).

Chris should stay away from the tweezers. Put them down and step far, far away.

Catherine gets sultrier - the clothes get tighter and shiner - and her hair is a Pantene commercial waiting to happen.

Bucky goes from country hick to someone who uses Velcro rollers in two weeks, but it’s back to the dude with the back of his head shaved and the fluffy mop on top.

Unfortunately, for Kenny and the rest of the gang, they forgot about the aforementioned lyrics when dealing with their stylists. It shouldn’t be about what the stylists think, it should be about who the contestants are (unless they’re Bucky, because his mirror is definitely playing tricks on him).

Know when to walk away…


An additional note: When my mother saw the episode, I asked her if she knew who it was and she pointed to the TV and said, "It's Kenny Rogers," in four seconds, like a savant.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Hurt me baby one more time

Back in elementary school, children would hurt others they liked by pinching, pushing, kicking and cussing them out in the yard or in the classroom.

Those jabs were signs of affection; the I think you're cute of the Crayola set.

Personally, I liked to get hurt. It meant someone liked me.

Nowadays, things are a little different. Sort of.

These rituals change as children mature into adults, although some adults continually enjoy being hurt. They have been preconditioned to associate love with pain - S&M of relationships.

And, I am one of those people.

Recently, I sent an e-mail to someone. It was a sign of weakness. It was an act of desperation.

If you're still interested...

Unlike the playground, this time there was no pinching, pushing, kicking and cussing.

There was no interest. There was no answer, at all.

Some people change, and others don't.

I will be hurt once again, and I will still come back for more.